Resident Evil: Trial by fury
by T M McCarver
Summary: This story preceeds several monthes before Resident evil 4. Barry Burton, Chris Redfield, and HUNK are mixed up in a situation revolving around a quickly rising underdog corperation with a powerful mercenary unit as it's enforcers.
1. Chapter 1 REVISED

Resident Evil: Trial by fury

DISCLAIMER. I do not own or claim to own ANY of the characters locations or events, pretaining to the Resident Evil games, novels, or movies, or anything involved with them. They rightfully belong to Capcom. I do however, rightfully own the characters "Man in red, 701 squad, and any other characters found in this fanfic only. They are purely fictious as are the events in this story, and any similarities to any person or event fictious or non-fictious, is purely accidental and coincidential.

Chapter 1

The streets of Scicily were littered with people on a Saturday morning. Many of the market places were in full swing, As hoards of people scrambled about preparing for the customary family gatherings that usually took place Sunday after mass. The smell of fresh wines was lingering over the town square. And many hides of cured pork were hung in the display windows of butchers shops. It was a routine occassion, that the family oriented Italians always approached with renewed vigour each week. Many children played stickball and soccer in the streets. As the elderly nana's and middle aged mothers browsed for some fresh spices, and prepared for their joyous feasts.

In a small corner espresso shop, sat a larger man. He was well built and nearing his 50's. His face was ruggedly handsome, and his eyes told many stories of his wealth of experiences, 99 percent of people would never see in their lifetime. He raised his porceline cup to his lips, and took a small sip of the bitter coffee inside. He released a content sigh, as his gaze poured over the front page of the local newspaper. "ISREALI PRIME MINISTER AND ISLAMIC CLERICS SCHEDULED TO SIGN PEACE PACT"

It finally seemed, that since Umbrella has went bankrupt 2 years ago. That the world can now focus on the more important issues at hand. He reached down for his pack of cigarettes, and popped one between his lips. Before lighting it with his brass lighter, that his dear friend Chris gave him 6 years ago. He sat their for a long moment with his eyes shut.. Taking a long flavourful drag. The bright sun beat down upon his face, as he reclined in his chair. His thoughts trailed back to his wife and family... He has been divourced now for 3 years. And his daughters are now in their teens. He has visiting rights with them usually every other week. However... His ex wife received custody of their children. He decided to take a vacation. And their mother would not allow his daughters to go with him.

His thoughts came to a premature end when his cell phone rang. He reached onto the table and grabbed the silver coloured device. Checking the number it was unidentified. He flipped it open and held it to his ear. "This is Barry." There was a long pause on the the other end. Barry, expected he was getting bad reception and asked. "Hello?" An electonicly scrambled voice then answered. "Mr Burton. Your'e a target... You must leave that area immediatly." Confused, Barry raised his voice slightly in retort. "Who is this?" The other line went dead...

Barry sat upright and looked around the area. Nothing seemed to be out of the blue. But then, he noticed a bit of movement on the rooftop of the adjacent building. A small, red, targeting beam then trailed over the glass tabletop, Heading towards Barry. His reflexes immeadiatly kicking in. He dove through the large, open door way to the coffee shop to his right. As fully automatic gun fire erupted, Tearing the table to thousands of tiny shards. As a few stray bullets plugged into the man that was sitting behind him. The crowd erupted into panic. Many people dropping their goods and fleeing, others searching for their children and friends amidst the chaos.

Barry instinctively reached under his left armpit, only to realize his magnum and other equipment were back in his New York apartment. "DAMN!" Barry cursed to himself.He glanced about the small shop, Notcing a few tables and chairs, and an older man behind the counter top in complete shock, before taking note of the door way to the right of the counter. The shopkeeper ducked down behind the oak bar and started crying in fright. Barry quickly made a dash for the door, which led to a set of wooden stairs. He quickly scampered up the stairs to another wooden door. However it was kept shut with a padlock. He headed back halfway down the stairs to the landing, And looked to his left. A red fire ax was suspended on hinges. He quickly grabbed the potential weapon, and rushed back upstairs. Cranking his arm back And whipping the blade forward. Snapping the lock in one good strike.

He stepped inside the room and shut the door behind him.. Immeadiatly diving low to the ground keeping out of sight from the windows. Taking a quick glance around. He noticed many bags of coffee beans, some old coffee grinder parts and other knicknacks strewn about in a careless manner. Most of the screaming stopped by now. For the town square was almost completely empty. Barry then crawled on his belly towards one of the windows. Pushing himself up slowly to his knees he carefully checked the surrounding area...

4 men dressed in black tactical vests and ski masks, rappelled down the sides of two adjacent buildings. Most likely sniper teams. A blue Hummer made it's way up the center street at about 85 mph, towards the coffee shop, before scrreching to a halt about 200 feet away from the entrance. The sniper teams made it to the ground and ran over to the vehicle in a flanking guard position. 3 more men dressed in black and ski masks stepped out of the vehicle. Each bearing MP5 submachine guns and frag grenades.

Finally a man dressed differently then the rest exited out of the front passenger side. He was about 6"2 and a medium build. He wore a blood red trench coat, and Aviator shades. He seemed to be in his mid thirties, and his body language suggested he was very laid back. He spit out a cigarette filter and ground it out with the heel of his black combat boots, before running his fingers through his semi long brown hair, parted down the center and the tips gelled into many locks that hung about his cheek. Strangely.. The man did not appear to be armed. One of the snipers walked over to the man and stood at attention, before delivering his report.

"Sir... Wev'e cornered the target inside. He hasn't made a move since initial contact." The man in red turned to his subourdinate and smirked slightly. "Alright... Lets go inside after him. Have Briggs and Gant remain outside. The rest of you on me." The red clad man stated with a deep voiced, Irish accent. 3 soldiers walked behind the man, and 1 soldier to each of his flanks, as they marched toward the cafe'. Barry ducked back down and scanned the area for any tactical advantage he could think of. "I gotta do this real quiet... Otherwise those gun toting hip gangesters outside will start cooking pineapples." Barry then took a second glance at the bags of coffee beans and planned his move.

The soldiers waltzed in through the 8 foot wide doorway, and looked over to the counter. The sounds of a quiet sobbing could be heard from behind. The red clad man looked over to one of his flank troops and nodded towards the counter. "Come out of there and indentify yourself!" Declared one of the soldiers sternly. Slight shuffling was heard, and a skinny balding man dressed in a stripped shirt and soiled apron stood up slowly. "I am Bartelle... The owner of this store... Pl- please don't hurt me." Whimpered the shaken man through an Italian accent.

The man in red stepped forward and stared at the man from behind his glasses. "Well Bartelle... My name is Jerhico, and I have no intention to harm you. I just want to ask you something... There was a larger man about your age that entered this store right before the attack yes?" Bartelle looked down clearly intimidated, and nodded his head nervously. Jerhico smirked and continued.

"Excellent.. Your doing very well. Now where did he go exactly?" The man hesitated a moment, But then tilted his head towards the door on his left. The posse immeadiatly started to walk in the appointed direction, but, Bartelle made a sudden reach for an object under the counter. Jerhico, however, was much quicker than the elderly man. In the blink of an eye without even so much as turning his head to see what the man was doing, his left arm was outstretched towards the poor shopkeeper, and a Desert Eagle .50 calibur pistol slide out of his sleeve into his hand in an instant. The shot was heard for hundreds of yards around, As the bullet pierced Bartelle's forehead and exited out the back. Spraying Shards of skull and brain matter all over the coffee pots.

His corpse slumped back against the mixtures and machinery and finally crumpled to the floor, his shotgun still stuck in his grasp. Jerhico then lowered his weapon. His gaze still focused upon the doorway in front of him. "Bad move" He looked back at his rear guards. And waved his fingers towards the shop entrance. He then looked to his flanking soldiers and then pointed towards the door leading to the stairs. The rear soldiers began scouring the wreckage for anything Barry mightv'e left behind. While the other 2 soldiers crept quietly up the stairs. Jerhico flipped open his phone and used speed dial.. "Yeah it's me... No, not yet... No sir there isn't a problem... 2 bystanders so far... Yes sir, the target has been indentified... Understood." He clasped his phone shut just in time to hear the commotion above.

The soldiers reached the top of the stairs. Peering around the corner carefully. One soldier stepped in and scanned the area with his weapon, checking all the blind spots, before motioning for his comrad to enter. They both stepped very quietly. Not planning on giving away their position. But there was no sign of the old man. Suddenly... There was a rustle of movement within the coffee bags. Both men took aim and opened fire.

The slugs tore into the shabby bags and some stray rounds slamming into the wall and equipment behind. After a few seconds and about 15 rounds each spent, the seige stopped. All that was heard was the soothing clatter of the spent casings hitting the dusty wooden floor. A small stream of blood ran out from under one of the bags, and seeped underneath the floor boards. The point soldier advanced slowly to confirm his kill.

His weapon still cautiously pointed at the haggard wreckage. He grabbed the edge of one bag in the center, and yanked it off the rest of the pile, only to find the bullet riddled corpse of a rather large rat. The soldiers heard a creak in the rafters above, but it was too late. The only image the rear guard saw, was their surprisingly agile target bearing down from above, Ax in hand. The sheer force of the weapon crashing onto his head, divided his skull in 2 with a wet "crunch". The remaining soldier turned his weapon towards the old timer, but Barry swiftly dislodged the weapon and hurled it at the other assassin. It made contact with his chest, shattering his sternum and embedding in his muscle tissue before he had a chance to fire. Barry bent down and tried to wipe the generous amounts of blood from his face, before grabbing one of the SMGs (sub machine guns).

He quickly searched his enemies bodies, scoring 2 spare clips containing 30 rounds each, and 2 frag grenades. The other opponent was still alive but the only sound he could make was a sickening gurgling from him choking on his own blood, thus he posed no threat. He sifted through that mans gear as well. He didn't find any spare ammo, but he did dig up a smoke grenade and a set of keys with a key chain that had a four leaf clover on it. After a few more seconds the gurgling stopped, and the life drained from his eyes. Barry lifted the mask off the assailant, and was shocked with what he saw.

A blonde haired blue eyed man of about 20 years old. His facial structure and complexion told him, that these men were IRA (Irish Republican Army) mercs. Barry heaved a sigh and then shuffled low towards the window. "What the hell do the Irish want with me?" His moment to relax was interrupted as the one recognizable soldier's radio sounded. "Has the target been dealt with over? Grim, do you copy? I repeat this is Jerhico, do you copy?" Barry quickly peered outside, noticing the two sentries havn't moved from the flanks of the blue Hummer. "BURN IT!" Was all Barry heard, before the two guards pulled incendiary grenades from their side pouches. The old timer quickly grabbed his smoke grenade and tossed it out the window. It landed with a faint "clang" in front of the main entrance. Barry then grabbed the headless corpse that happened to be the closest to him, and tossed it out the window, as 2 unfriendly "tinks" sounded very close to his location.

Without another precious second of hesitation, he lept out of second story window as the grenades went off. The whole top half of the building erupted into a pillar of fire, quickly complimented by smoke, thanks to the old timer's grenade on the ground floor. Barry opened fire in midair on the 2 guards by the vehicle and brought them down before they could reach for their slung SMG's. It was a rough landing but the corpse he threw out a few seconds before, absorbed most of the impact. Barry quickly got up, and pulled the pin on a frag before tossing it into the cafe' behind him.

Jerhico saw the explosive appear through the thick smoke, and quickly dove over the counter, as it went off. The last 3 soldiers were blown back against the walls of the shop and riddled with hundreds of pieces of shrapnel, pretty much ripping them apart. Jerhico quickly recovered and made a head on dash through the smoke, and outside of the ruined place of business. Only to watch his car drive away and disappear around the first corner.

Jerhico kicked the headless body with enough force to push it back several feet along the dusty road."FUCK!" Was all Jerhico could say. He reached inside his left, inner, jacket, pocket and grabbed his cell, flipping open the device, regrettably calling back his employer. "The target escaped... I mean he killed the sweeper squad and stole my car!... He's an old man, His luck will run out sooner or later, and when it does, He's mine... Yes sir... 15 minutes? Understood sir... click

Due to many grammar errors, and some unfortunate lazieness on my part as the author. I have proofread and revised chapter 1. I apologize for my mistakes and will make sure that my chapters are never this sloppy again. I thank you for your patience, and please enjoy the story, and review. I am working fulltime now, but I will attempt to update as much as possible.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

10:32 AM. Barry had been driving for almost an hour. He had no idea where he was going, He just knew he had to get away. He lite up another cigarette, and started scanning his memories. "Why can't I live a normal life like everyone else?" He said to himself after an exhasperated sigh. Like a tape on fast forward, all of his bazaar career events played in his head. The mansion incident, the Racoon city outbreak, S.T.A.R.S, the whole Umbrella scandle. It was all supposed to be behind me now. So who is this new group, and why do they want me dead? And who the hell was that deadbeat loser in the faggy outfit? All of these questions flowed through his imagination as he took another haul on his cigarette. The area he was driving through was only populated by farmers and wine makers. The landscape, was primarilybrown fields of wheat ripe for harvest, and grazing areas populated with many cows. The sky was blue on a bright sunny day, with a few clouds to decorate the atmosphere, as seen in a beautiful painting. It was definately worth a snapshot, but Barry had other things on his mind.

His small cell rang once again on the leather seat beside him. Barry let it go for awhile, almost terrified of answering, leaving to the imagination of what horrors awaited him next. However, The phone wouldn't stop, as if the caller on the other end had an obsessive determination to reach him. Frustrated, Barry picked up the device and flipped it open. "Hello?" Was his opening line. "Glad to see you made it out of there Mr. Burton. It looks like you havn't slowed down one bit." Came the reply of the familiar scrambled voice. "Who the hell are you? And why do these people want me dead?" Responded Barry, obviously flustered. "Who I am is not important right now. As for the mercenaries... They have been hired by the company to wipe out the remaining S.T.A.R.S. members in order to secure the reconstruction."

Barry looked around nervously, making sure he was not being followed. "The company? You mean Umbrella?" There was a short pause on the other line before the man continued. "No... They are not Umbrella anymore. Due to the amount of damage you and the other remaining S.T.A.R.S. members have done to their reputation in the public eye, they are no longer Umbrella for obvious reasons." Barry pulled over to the side of the rocky terrain in order to concentrate more fully on what this man had to say. "Why are you helping me?" Asked Barry, obviously curious as to the motives of this man. "Because, by keeping you alive, you will owe me a large debt." Barry scanned his rear view mirror, feeling rightfully paranoid. "So this is about money?" Retorted Barry in a slightly upset tone of voice. "No... Instead, you are going to help me wipe this company out before it even starts. We can't allow this all too familar face to resurface this time. If they succeed in wiping out S.T.A.R.S. nothing will prevent them from continueing their research on the T-Virus." Barry sank back into his seat, allowing everything he just heard to settle into his mind.

"Look, I wanna help you, I really do. But all of my contacts and weapons are back in the States. I'm just on vacation for Christs' sakes." Barry finished as he rubbed his eyes, already fading with fatigue. "Well then Mr. Burton. I suggest you call your friends as soon as possible. As for weapons and equipment... Don't worry, they will be provided. Listen carefully Mr. Burton... If you want to make it out here alive to see your family again, I suggest you take my advice. Unless you want to try and take out those hitters with the little ammunition you have, all by yourself. And believe me, that's not enough." Barry paused for a long moment, considering his very limited options. He glanced over to his weapon on the seat. He had only 1 grenade, 1 spare clip, and 1 in the breach. Finally, he responded. "Alright, We have a deal." Barry stated with a sigh. "Good, I knew you'd see the light at the end of the tunnel. You get in touch with your people, and I will keep in contact." Barry clasped his phone shut and sat there for a moment longer with his head in his hands. "There's a shit storm commin."

12:16 PM, Somewhere in France. An extraction chopper lands near a large control tower in the center of a French military facility. The large steel door slides open with an exhadurated amount of force. Jerhico steps off the vehicle hastily, and begins walking at a decent pace towards the tower. The facility is booming with activity, as hundreds of troops scamper about unloading equipment from trucks, and preparing different aircraft for take off. Other soldiers are participating in different combat drills and other various training excercises. Something big was going down real soon, but Jerhico didn't pay much attention. Right now, he was busy trying to prepare what he was going to tell his superior. Failure was not an option when dealing with these types of people, and Jerhico knew it. The base was in a fairly remote location, most likely along the border where nobody really wandered into very often. An officer with 2 guards behind him approached the man in red with a salute. "We are delighted to have you here Colonel. Please come with me, He is expecting you." The officer turned around and headed towards the entrance, With Jerhico following reluctantly behind him. They approached a steel door with a card reader and key pad on the right. The officer swiped his card and entered a 4 digit access code, And the door unlocked. The guards stayed at the entrance, as the officer and his companion stepped inside.

Inside the facility was a large dark room, lite solely by hundreds of computer stations and a large screen, displaying sattellite images, media coverage, and many other things. Most of the stations seemed to be manned by overpaid civillians, while the place was also swarming with guards dressed in urban camoflague, and bearing assault weapons. The officer led Jerhico up a winding set of polished stainless steel stairs, that stretched to a large office overlooking the busy drones. The officer knocked on the door at the top of the stairs lightly, and then stepped inside. The men walked into an elaborate office suspended above the center of activity. The walls were all 2-way mirrors, and a large cherrywood desk sat in the center decorated with about 3 different computer terminals, each serving a different purpose. A man of average height and build, wearing an expensive looking black suit, stood with his hands behind his back looking out the window opposite of the door. The officer stepped forward and cleared his throat nervously. "Ahem, the Colonel is here to see you sir." The man in black turned around, He looked to be in his mid 50's and had a few wrinkles on his forehead and cheeks, itwas quite apparent that he is not used to smiling much. "Thankyou major, that will be all." The officer gave a quick salute and eagerly exited the office, closing the door behind him.

The man stood upright and proud, as he walked towards the man in red. Jerhico's knees went weak, and his teeth started chattering as he was truely terrified of this old man. The man stopped right in front of him, staring coldly right through Jerhico's glasses. Jerhico's face seered with pain, as the man backhanded his right cheek firmly. "You miserable cur! Have some respect!" Jerhico immeadiatly nodded and removed his shades stuffing them in his pocket. His piercing grey eyes nearly welled up with tears at this man's scorning. "How could you let the target get away?" Asked the man gruffly. Jerhico looked down at the floor, ashamed. "H-he ambushed us." The Man cranked his arm back and threw a good strike to his lip. "This was supposed to be a done deal. A sniper takes him out, you confirm the kill... That was the agreement." The man said in an almost reassuring tone of voice, as Jerhico wiped the drop of blood from his mouth. "He was smarter than we anticipated... He was a member of a special forces unit after all." The man quickly threw another punch, but his fist was caught by Jerhico's hand. "I deserved 1... Not 3." Said Jerhico weakly. The man grinned devilishly as placed his hand back at his side. "Good to know you have some balls. Now I am going to pay out of pocket for this extra expense, and I expect reults. Assemble your unit and do it right this time." Jerhico bowed and headed out of the office. He clenched his fist as he descended down the staircase. His hatred growing for his superior every day.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

1:04 PM. Captain Jim's was a filthy rathole bar in the middle of a rundown part of town. Classic rock music from the 80's sounded in the atmosphere as a painful reminder of why a good portion of music from that era was called "bad 80's." The walls were cracked and ripe with mildew, and the cigarette smoke was so thick that you didn't even need to bum one to get your nicotine fix, just breathe. Not that you'd want to ask anything of the patrons anyway. Most of them in their 40's. Fat, balding, and either high or drunk on anything ranging from cocaine, to beer, to draino... Or all 3. The women weren't any exception either. They ranged from their 20's to 60's. Alot of them hookers, others, waitresses, the rest, a waste of air.

There was a trio of well used pool tables in the center. 2 of them having books underneath a leg or two keeping them up, not that they help much considering the makeshift paper signs hanging from the undersides stating, "Don't lean on the fucking table!" The area was dimly lite by a few green lights hanging above the tables and bar. Some of the drunken lowlives will say it's for a romantic setting. The truth is, it's because the staff is too lazy to reach 3 extra feet to change all of the other bulbs.

But this type of place was perfect for Barry to maintain a low profile for now. He sat back comfortably in his private boothe, sipping a glass of rum and coke, feeling right at home. Except for the slight annoyance of the putrid smell comming from an unwashed middle aged man, with greased back hair in the boothe next to his, feeling up a 40ish year old obese woman with an eye patch. His mind in an exhaustive state of overdrive, prying through the numerous memory blocks in a futile attempt to remember any phone numbers that may prove useful.

Jill Valentine and Barry havn't spoken in 3 1/2 years, Since their brief affair which soon resulted in divource from his wife. Whatever drove him to forsake his family in pursuit of a friend nearly half his age is a mystery, but what happened could not be undone. Out of grief and regret he deliberately made sure not to know where Jill went, or even how he could reach her. Chris Redfield on the other hand... He kept in touch with over the years. Even doing his part in the crumble of Umbrella by providing evidence linking the company to the development and manufacture of the T-virus that Albert Wesker ordered him to destroy back at the mansion. He originally kept the documents as insurance for his families' safety.

Barry had tried Chris' home phone several times in the past couple of hours with no luck. He didn't even own an answering machine in response to his home being searched by Umbrella agents on numerous occasions when he wasn't around. He clamped his phone shut yet again and set it down on the amply scratched wooden table, just in time to see three men prance through the entrance like they owned the place.

The tallest of the men, looked about 30 and was about 6"6, with long wavy black hair down to his shoulders, a brown peircing eyes that complimented a seemingly permenent sneer on his rough face. He seemed to be North American. He wore a black muscle shirt, black shorts, and brown work boots that looked like steel toe. The shortest of the trio, was about 5"8, and of Asian descent. He was very lanky, and the best dressed out of them. He wore a silk, velvet, dress shirt with a gold chain hung about his neck. Acompanied by tight, black pants and black, polished dress shoes. He quickly mingled with the crowd and disappeard. The last of the posse seemed to be the leader, by the display of confidense and respect/fear that surrounded his prescence. He was about 6"2, and North American like his pal. His head was shaved and adorned by a blue bandana. He looked kinda like that action star Vin Deisel, from his face to his fairly impressive build. He was dressed in simply a brown vest, blue baggy jeans, and black sneakers. His left arm was covered in black tribal tatoos that extended from the wrist to his shoulder.

He simply walked over to the immeadiatly vacant bar. A complimentary beer was and newspaper was waiting for him at his selected seat. The crowd and staff feared these men, because they did not have a choice. From what Barry could decipher from the whispers, they were enforcers for a local street gang. Everyone simply kept their mouths shut, and their eyes down towards the drinks in front of them. However, Barry was not intimidated in the least, and had no problem locking gazes with the largest of the 3.

"Got a problem dipshit?" Growled the man, with a voice that sounded like he ate gravel for lunch and washed it down with a refreshing box of thumb tacs. "Yeah... Your standing in front of the T.V." Retorted Barry sarcasticly. Time seemed to stand still, as everyone heard a remark not even a fully armed marine would dare make in that man's prescence. "Why don't you come here and say that to my face hillbilly?" Replied the man in serious need of anger management and a tutor. Everyone around him cleared away, pushing tables and chairs to the corners of the room. A fight was brewing, and everyone started placing their bets among their friends, and they were large sums of cash against the older man. Barry stood up from his seat, brushing off his jeans and white, t-shirt, as if he got dirty just from the ogre talking at him. He took a few slow steps towards him, his boots clopping on the dirty hard wood floor, his gaze not leaving the aggressor's even once. He stopped about 4 feet away.

"I said... I wanna watch the television set, and your ugly ass is in my way." Repeated Barry in a "what are you gonna do about it?" tone of voice. Many gasped like a trumpet calling forth the calvary in response to his brave statement, or last words. The behemoth clenched his fist and gritted his teeth in rage, before taking a full forced right hook towards Barry's jaw that would surely knock it off of his skull. But unknown to most... Barry was an adept in Jiu-Jitsu, and much quicker on his feet despite what his large, muscular appearance might let on. In the blink of an eye before the fist in the incarnate of a compact "weapon of mass destruction" could make contact, he simply side stepped the muscular extremity, grabbing his wrist with his left hand and spinning on his heel in a clockwise 180 degree turn. He reached up and grabbed the man's throat with his right hand, clutching the giant's wind pipe, and stomping down on his right kneecap, effectively snapping it. The man dropped to his left knee, and howled as the fiery pain shot up his leg, and even reached into his groin. Barry twisted his hips and tensed his right arm muscles into a push, forcing the man down to the pavement, with a loud "crack" as the back of his head hit first, knocking him unconcious.

Everything stopped, and not a breath was heard. Most of the patrons just watched in awe and disappointment as they allowed their rent money and gambling debts to slip through their fingers and fall to the floor. The crowd however refused to part for Barry to reach his preciouse T.V. He leered down at two patrons barring his way and finally pulled them aside from one another. When suddenly, Barry went flying backwards a good 5 or 6 feet as his chest seered in pain and the wind was knocked out of him. He spent a few seconds to quickly force the air back into his freshly starved lungs, before pulling his lower body back, planting his palms firmly on the floor, and lunging his feet forward effectively whipping his form back to his upright stance. He then saw that the foot was dressed in fresh polished shoes. Shoes that belonged to the shorter Asian that disappeared into the crowd before. The Asian man took a step forward, a grin plastered across his face. He leapt into the air throwing both of his legs straight out to his left and right, as he placed his hands below his body to absorb the shock of landing in the splits. The crowd immeadiatly began doubling up their bets, and a few more people actually starting putting their money on the older man.

Barry stood with one leg in front of the other for good balance, and his left arm pulled back in front of his face open handed, with his right arm outstretched in front also open handed, looking his opponent directly in the eye. The Asian appeared to be a very adept Jeet Kune Do artist, as Barry could tell by his stance. The man wandered around the fighting ring in almost a jog, except he kept switching his feet back and forth while trying to get a good vantage point to attack from. His hands also constantly moving about in circular motions open handed, Both hands encircling in front of his torsoe, one rotated clockwise and the other counter clockwise, to throw off any opponents trying to read his next attack.

Barry, knew not to underestimate his opponent because he was small, especially because he was extremely fast, and forced him to be on his best guard at all times. The Asian stepped forward and quickly threw a front flatfooted kick towards Barry's face, but it was quickly deflected by the former S.T.A.R.S. members' right forearm, that caught under the mans' heel and lifted his leg, forcing the Asian off balance, as the foot passed harmlessly over Barry's head. The older man then counter attacked with a swift left straight shot aimed at the soft spot behind his knee, but the Asian quickly tensed the muscles of his other leg and sprung into the air. Twisting his upper body in midair, effectively swinging his entrapped leg out of danger, while whipping around his other foot into a backside round house, pressing for the right side of Barry's head. However Barry was a more experienced fighter, and saw the twist of his opponents hips, immeadiatly ducking low enough to feel the the breeze trailing his enemy's foot as it swept over his short, brown hair. Just as the man was finishing his full rotation, he swung his original foot up for a final kick to Barry's chest before landing, The old timer bobbed left, and thrust his elbow up, making firm contact within the soft spot under the man's chin behind his protective jawline, sending the Asian spawling away from him, and landing on his back.

Barry was about to press his attack while is opponent was on the ground, but he immeadiatly stepped back, as the man cranked his legs out to either side, and whipped them around in a full circle, in hopes to sweep out the older mans legs. Feeling no contact after his full scan, the Asian rolled backwards and on to his feet once again. He smirked at The old timer and spit some sticky blood onto the already filthy floor, as a result of the blow causing him to bite the inside of his cheek. The man resumed his very fluid stance, seeming to have not lost any energy what so ever. His gaze burning intense enough to rip a gaping hole into your very being. Barry looked down at the man's feet briefly, The well polished shoes flailing wildly back and forth, faining attacks often. Returning his gaze to his opponents, he watched his opponent nudge his head and shoulders forward every few seconds, as if to attack, except they just happened to be more psyche outs.

The leader of the gang, still sitting at the bar, never once even so much as looked in the direction of the fight, seeming completely disinterested in the event, and more intrigued by his news paper and half finished beer in front of him. Barry, now getting tired of this "all for show loser" threw a quick one-two jab at his face with his left and right fists. However, the Asian was still quite quick and attentive, and he weaved his head right and then left in response to the attack. Barry then pressed forward, and threw another 5 jabs starting with his right hand this time. The man began backing away bobbing his head left and right, successfully avoiding any blows that came his way. The crowd immeadiatly parted behind the Asian, as they were now reaching the border of the fight pit. Barry's carefully laid trap was finally sprung, when his enemy retaliated with a swift right hook kick towards his face.

But the older man knew what was comming and reached up with his left hand, blocking the incomming foot, and intwining the Asian's leg under his left arm pit in an effective lock. Barry then spun with all his strength, forcing the man to completely lose his balance. He swung the tiny Asian like a ragdoll in a full circle, before the asian abrubtely stopped his flight, by catching a solid oak pillar with his face. The puney man crashed to the floor, and a red mess erupted from his mouth, shattered nose, and a multitude of other cuts and splinters about his facial structure. Barry released his foot and took in a deep breath, The Asian laid there on his stomache, trying to find the strength to pick himself up for another go. After spitting out a few teeth and more blood, he realized he wasn't feeling too well and just laid down.

The man at the bar, still not having looked at the display, simply guzzled the last few bitter ounces of his beer and slammed his folded paper down on the counter. The bar erupted into fits of rage and damn near violence, as most of the patrons now owed more than they could afford to the lucky few who bet against the mobsters. Barry exhaled a final sigh, and began walking towards the T.V. yet again, in hopes to find a good news channel. When suddenly two of the gamblers were pushed aside, scattering their cash everywhere. In any other situation, those grease balls would be diving left right and center for the money, except, nobody even wanted to blink near the final monstrousity. The leader of the gang stepped out into the circle. "Oh my God, Grinder is gonna fight now." Whispered the dirtbag who was hitting on the one eyed chick. The man simply looked at Barry and grinned, Nodding his head and offering his right hand for a friendly powergrip.

Barry was plain and simply too exhausted to fight anymore, so he took the mans' hand and accepted his apology. Many people around the room, immeadiatly began motioning with their hands the catholic insignia of the crucifix. Grinder's proposal, however,was not one of respect, but of misdirection. He quickly yanked Barry close, planting his kneecap powerfully into his stomache. Barry, doubled over and coughed, but his instincts told him to get out of his grasp, by swinging a firm boot to the man's groin. The nazi wannabe'shold loosened, and Barry quickly pulled his hand away, stepping back a few feet, while weezing for much neededoxygen. While Grinder seemed otherwise completely unphased, as he charged forward, thrusting out his muscular shoulder, his sneakers gripping quite well to the wooden earth, only adding to his momentum. The dirty fighter collided with Barry cleanly, sending the old timer sailing back across the room, before shaking hands with the ground as gravity insisted. Barry knew he had to get up, though his aching muscles said otherwise.

After his brief mental battle with himself that felt like hours, he climbed to his feet and looked up, only to see two things moving quickly towards him. The newer pool table, and Grinder behind it. Not given enough time to react, and his nervous system hurting him for trying, The wood and felt table crashed into the older man, dragging/pushing him past the rest of the tables and chairs, and towards the approaching wall. As if pure instinct itself, or a moment of clarity kicked in. He hastily reached into the corner pocket, feeling through the leather netting he grasped the 8 ball. Pulling his hand out of the seemingly infinite hole, and yanking his arm back.Whipping the ball forward with every ouce of strength he had left. The glassy substance smashed against the top of Grinder's nose, and scattered shards of bone and cartilage throughout his face, some even shooting out of his cheeks in a bloody protest. But the ones that counted, were the shards that traveled up his nasal cavity, and embedded themselves comfortably into his brain.

Barry, completely out of breath, allowed his legs to give out as he slumped against the moldy, nicotine stained walls. He reached into his pocket, pulling out his tattered pack of cigarettes. Placing one bent in 6 or 7 places between his lips, he sat there just sucking on the filter for a moment before realizing it wasn't lit. Gazing at the corpse of his hopefully last enemy this shithole had to offer, he reached into the same pocket for his brass lighter. Gratefully taking hold of the metallic miracle worker, he flipped the top and slide back the crank... Nothing happened. He turned the crank again, plenty of sparks, but no fire. Everyone stared at him in silence, wondering what terrible doom awaited them, if he didn't get his fix. The patrons were too terrified to move to toss him a lighter, so Barry calmly pulled the chamber out of it's case. Lifting the cotton fiber lacing the underside he blew into it, allowing a few vapours to soak into the mechanism.

He turned the crank without even placing the cylinder back in it's case. Loe and behold, he created fire tousher inhis relief. He took a long drag of his smoke, and allowed the chemicals to seep into his lungs for a long moment before exhaling. "Heh... works every time on these." Barry said to himself matter of factly. "Strange though... I havn't had to refill this even once in all the time Iv'e had this. I would love to know what type of oil Chris used." Barry then lifted the case, and was about to slide the chamber back inside, when something caught his eye. "If ever your in serious trouble, you can reach me at this number (1-226-754-3498)" Was engraved on the side of the chamber. The very lighter that Chris Redfield gave him, had an emergency contact number on it.

DISCLAIMER...I do not own or claim to own any of the characters, events, or placesaffilliated with the Resident evil franchise. They are ownedsolely by Capcom.I also do not own or claim to own the 3 fighters depicted in this chapter... I simply used them because I saw them in some movie, and I figured they'd be cool to put in a bar fight scene. I do however claim to rightfully own any of the characters that are not depicted anywhere else but this fic, and I ask that if anyone would like to use these characters they ask for my permission first thankyou.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

7:24 PM. The bright spotlights switched on, and dusted over the large landing zone. The sky was painted in a red and pink hue, as the sun continued to fade off into the West. The sound of a helicopter's rotor blades whirred in the distance, gradually getting closer. The soldiers on the ground scrambled about, preparing for landing and accomidations. Jerhico stood at the edge of the helipad, with a cigarette slowly burning in his mouth, and a thick dossier held within his fingerless black gloves. He flipped through a few pages, bringing himself back up to speed on his unit.

" 701 SQUAD. CLASSIFIED INFORMATION. LEVEL 1 CLEARANCE REQUIRED." Was stamped over the front of the brown folder. Only the team leader, and upper level managment in the company, had access to files this secure.

A picture is posted on the second page of a man in his mid-late 30's. Black hair, brown eyes, and a lanky build. His face is free of any signs of aging, except for the smile lines on either side of his mouth.

Name: Shawn

Rank: Major

Serial No. 339610

Age: 38

Height: 5"10

Blood Type?

Ethnicity: Caucasian

Current contract: 2 years service, 7'200'000 (Euro funds)

Report: The organization has placed Shawn under Class B. research. His ability to communicate with the spirits of the dead as a mediator, has yet to be fully studied. Former IRA Militant. A good soldier, and capable of following orders. Second in command of the 701 squad. Specializes in assault weapons, non lethal combat, administration, and communication skills. An egnigmatic physical specimen. Many tests have concluded a different set of DNA within his body that is not found in any other subjects.

On the second page is a picture of a woman, about late 20's. Short, red hair cut about chin length. Green eyes, and an excellent facial structure making her appear very attractive.

Name: Gina

Rank: Luitenant

Serial No. 791250

Age: 28

Height: 5"8

Blood type: AB

Ethnicity: Caucasian

Current contract: 4 years service 3'760'000 (American funds)

Report: Former Marine Reconasseince, 26th Division. Decorated for bravery on several occasions during operation Desert Storm. Medals including, 2 purple hearts, 2 bronze stars, 1 silver star, and reccomended for the congretional medal of honour on 2 seperate occasions. Specializes in sniping, unarmed CQB, vehicle operations, extreme enviroment survival, and quick situation assessment. A sharpe mind, and able body. No rebellion towards authority ever reported.

Jerhico flipped to the third page to find the next member. A picture of a latino man in his early 40's was posted. With close cropped black hair, and black eyes to match. He also seemed to have a fairly large build.

Name: Marquez

Rank: Seargant

Serial No. 918363

Age: 41

Height: 6"4

Blood type: O Positive

Ethnicity: Latin American

Current contract: 2 years service, 1'450'000 (American funds)

Report: Former Navy Seal. Has 22 years of combat experience, and some requirments for leadership, and an excellent team player. However he has a constant problem with authority, and needs to be handled firmly to avoid conflict in the chain of command. Specializes in demolition, heavy weapons, computers, equipment dispersal, and organization. He is a victem of OCD, and has been the recipient of many violations, and disciplinary actions.

The thundering helicopter, is nearing it's approach for landing, as the sun is almost completely set. Jerhico tosses another page over, and sees the picture of the next member. A young man in his mid 20's with long blonde hair tied in a pony tail and blue eyes. His eyes however have no sparkle or hint of a soul, as they emit a piercing gaze that would unnerve most people.

Name: Conner

Rank: Seargant

Serial No. 587106

Age: 25

Height: 6"0

Blood type: A

Ethnicity: Caucasian

Current contract: 6 years service, 7'120'000 (Euro funds)

Report: Former MI6 operative. Was striving for 00 agent status, however his severe emotional and psychological instability, had him honourably dismissed from Her Majesty's Secret Service. Specializes in stealth operations, information gathering, knives, armed and unarmed CQB, problem solving, tracking, and cleanup operations. His body was enhanced through gene therapy, allowing him to see 20/10, hear high pitched noises beyond what the average human cannot pick up, move faster and more agile than most humans, and has incredible reflexes. Some of his modified genes have been extracted, and are currently under extensive research.

The chopper, was now circling overhead, awaiting clearance for landing from the control tower, as Jerhico glanced over the last page briefly. His picture was pasted at the top, and his professional profile noted below like the others.

Name: Jerhico

Rank: Colonel

Serial No. 672015

Age: 36

Height: 6"2

Blood type: B Negative

Ethnicity: Caucasian

Current Contract: 2 years service, (Renewable after expiration) 22'450'000 (Euro funds)

Report: The current leader of the 701 squad. Jerhico joined IRA Blackops at the age of 19, and made the rank of Colonel by 23. He has an impressive track record behind him, carrying a reputation for being cool and calm in most high risk combat situations. Moved to the United States at age 25, and was accepted into the CIA shortly there after. Rising quickly in the ranks, he was top level by the age of 32. He specializes in firearms of all types, unarmed CQB, leadership, strategy, public relations, interrogations, clean up operations, demolitions, knives, intitiative, information gathering, computers, and high profile/high risk operations. After a scandal was pinned on Jerhico involving Umbrella, he vanished from site, and thwarted many attempts on his life by CIA and MI6 operatives. He runs a tight ship, using only hand picked soldiers for his often sensative missions.

The landing gear on the HIND-D chopper made contact with the pavement, as Jerhico finished reading his documents. He spat out his smoke, and began walking at a steady pace towards the helicopter. The armoured door slid open, and the team jumped out of the aircraft quickly and stood in formation in front of their commander. "The 701 squad is ready to rock on roll at the drop of a hat sir!" Stated Shawn with a cheery Irish tone, and respectful salute. "At ease troops, and cut the formal faggot bullshit. We are family." Replied Jerhico sarcasticly, and obviously thrilled to see his team. He immeadiatly embraced Shawn warmly. He was much more intimate with him than the rest of his men, for he was his only surviving brother, and blood relative for that matter.

The other grunts that had been preparing for the team's arrival, kicked into action. They climbed aboard the chopper, and began unloading the squad's weapons and equipment. The blades above the helicopter came to a slow stop after a few moments, and the pilot disembarked, and headed towards the control tower to give his report, and check list. "So what's the game plan this time around Jerry?" Asked Gina, eager to jump into action. Jerhico slung his arm over his brother's shoulder and led the team back towards the base. "You'll all be briefed shortly... But for God's sake, let's have a few drinks first." Retorted the team leader happily. Everyone cheered and rooted at the idea. It was always their custom to have a gathering and party before every mission if time allowed. The unit was so close with each other, they always wanted to make sure they said what they had to say. Cause any mission could be their last.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Another empty magazine hit the ground with a loud "clack" before slamming a fresh one home, but the monsters just kept comming. The lone soldier let his P-90 roar yet again, chewing up a few more zombies, and spilling their guts over the dirty streets, though they wouldn't be down for long. A few more empty casings floated down to Earth, and ended with a few reassuring "tinks" as they stopped on top of the cool pavement. "Base, this is Alpha 1. Objective complete, where is my fuckin extraction chopper?" The mercenary shouted into his head set. Hejogged up the abandoned street, always looking back to his rear, as he waited for a reply. "Alpha 1 this is base. Proceed to the monestary on 6th, a chopper will arrive in 5 minutes, over." Retorted the static filled headset.

The soldiers breathing was laboured, and his body filled to the threash hold of pain. He had recieved numerous injuries in one of the many skirmishes moments before. His vision blurred and his limbs became weak, from the amount of blood he lost. But he was so close, he couldn't stop now, for the church doors stared him in the face. The man forced his overwhelmed body into motion, his combat boots thundering loudly over the stone steps, as he approached the wooden door.

He kicked the doors inward with enough force to nearly knock them off their hinges. He could here the terrifying moans growing closer, and caluculated the time differences in his mind. He would have to make a stand at the extraction point. His adrenaline now completely blocking out the pain that was just scorching through his exterimities, he booked it to the courtyard out back. "This is base to agent HUNK, The chopper will arrive eta 3 minutes, stand by." Just as the transmission ended, the back doors to the church flew open, and masses of zombies poured out into the courtyard, eager for flesh.

HUNK, raised his SMG, and let her scream with fury. Each shot was perfectly placed, as the laser sight highlighted over each and every head, except the unthinkable happened. Before the weapon could even release a single bullet, the firing pin inside broke. "What the fuck is this? I just bought this before the mission!" With no time left to question, HUNK pulled his last 2 frags from the side of his belt, popped the pins, and scattered them on either side of the mob. He took a few steps back, and placed his hand in front of his mask, so the blast would not blind him for using thermal imaging.

The grenades erupted, and it was almost like time slowed down, and HUNK could astral project and see 360 degrees around his enemies. He watched as each indvidual piece of shrapnel, scattered in the air, and tore through the creatures bodies from all sides. The pieces of metal ripping many limb from limb. Others, nearly vapourized from the blast itself. While the rest sustained enough damage to their brain and spine to put them down for good. His spirtual body flew back into his body, and he felt the tiny rocks, clumps of dirt, and blood land on his armour. He brought his hand down from his face, and looked at the destruction, quite satisfied with himself. "How did I see that? I'm positive I covered up... Let alone how did I see that in colour?"

HUNK's questioning of his sanity came to an abrupt end as more zombies filed in from the church. A loud "crash" sounded to his left, as a large portion of the wooden fence was knocked down, and even more of the creatures kept comming. The loud helicopter engine thundered from above, and HUNK could feel the steady breeze through his armour, his saviour has come. He reached around to the back pouch on his belt, making sure the vial was still in place, and his mission secure. "Alpha 1, this chopper 446 9er. We are preparing for extraction. Clear the area."

HUNK crossed both of his hands in front of his face, before whipping them back down to his sides. With a high pitched "Shwing" 1 razor sharp blade, of about 2 feet long slide out from either forearm. "Copy that" Was his reply. He dug the toes of his hard worn boots into the Earth, and ran straight into the fray. He leapt into the air, and swung his blades forward, until his arms crossed over one another and stopped when he was almost giving himself a hug, as he made his landing. 4 zombies fell over headless. Another undead woman stepped forward and tried to grab the mercenary, but HUNK whipped both of his hands up into a double uppercut. Effectively slicing the womans head into 3 pieces bottum to top.

He then spun to his left, dodging the wanton hands of another monster, and stopping behind it with a grasp of his own. Locking his palms, one behind it's head, and the other over it's chin. One firm twist was all it took for the creature to rest in peace with a cleanly broken spinal column. He then swipped his right arm, and spun on his heel 180 degrees, severing 3 more heads. Hunk was holding his own considerably well, until his worst fear came true.

A blast erupted overhead, and the helicopter spun wildly out of control. He could hear the pilots screams through his headset, they were near deafening. He pulled off his helmet and mask and threw them to the side. Just in time for him to feel intense pressure around his throat and neck, as he was lifted off his feet. His blades stabbed visciously at the massive arm holding him up. He tried desperatly to breathe, his lungs burning for air, and his eyes feeling like they were going to burst from his head. He looked down to see the monsterous Nemesis, squeezing the life from him. "CRITICAL ERRORRR... UMBRELLAAAAA!" Came the unnerving growly tone of the damaged creature.

HUNK continued to stab at it's arm, but the tissue regenerated too quickly. He could barely even break the skin as it was. His blades finally broke, as the creatures skin was hardening. His neck seared in pain, as it was pierced, the last thing he felt was the violent wiggling behind his spine. The creature dropped his corpse, and the slithering tentacle retracted into his palm. HUNK could still look around, his spirit falling, he could feel it in his gut, like going over the edge of a roller coaster. Then his eyes opened.

His breathing was heavy, and his body drenched in sweat. He sat up quickly, and rubbed his eyes. He looked around, to notice he was in a dark jail cell. He ran his fingers through his short blonde hair. He could hear the chattering of rats below his filthy bed. The rancid smell of old urin and other unmentionable things, emenating from the dry and well used toilet beside him, filled his nostrils. He put his bare feet on the cold concrete below him, and remembered being grabbed by several Federal Agents. They zapped him with a taser and he was out cold. He ran his finger tips over the tender spot on his neck, wincing slightly. The slot on the cell door slide open, and bright light beamed through.

The slot slammed shut, and a far off beeping noise was heard and the door unlocked. The thick titanium door opened, and the cell was completely illuminated. A tall man about 6'0 Stepped inside. He had short spiked blonde hair, and expensive shades. He wore a black buisness suit, and had a lean medium build. His voice cold and laid back. "Sorry if they were a little rough with you." Came his response. "Wesker you piece of shit!" Retorted HUNK angrily as he stood up. "Sit down Dwayne... You kill me and you'll be rotting in a state penetentery the rest of your life, with some nigger named Otis." Was Wesker's smooth reply.

Dwayne sat back down reluctantly, and looked Wesker in the eye. "I don't work for Umbrella anymore... I'm retired. Besides, last I heard The orginization hit some hard times, and won't be making it this season." He stated. Wesker tossed him a pack of smokes and his lighter back. "It seems your trigger finger has gone soft, but we'll have it back in shape in no time." Replied Wesker. Dwayne lit up a cigarette, and exhaled slowly. He rubbed his thumb over his index finger softly, there was a small callouse left, that used to cover his finger.

"I'm done killing. I don't work for you or anyone else." Said HUNK, in a shameful tone of voice. "You say that until you hear the pa-" But Wesker was cut short. "I DON'T CARE ABOUT THE FUCKIN MONEY!" Snapped Dwayne obviously upset. Wesker smirked slightly, and turned to walk out. "I hope you like the decoration... Cause this place is your new home." Retorted Wesker in a disappointed tone of voice. HUNK stared at the floor for a second, and then looked up just as Wesker stepped through the doorway. "What do you want me to do? And the money better be real good." Wesker turned around and half smiled. "I knew you'd see it my way."


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

French military base, 10:35 P.M. She had the perfect life. A beautiful face and figure, rich parents, 3 luxuriouse cars, all bought by her father, and the natural laziness and fuss that comes with the package. She was a user and a tease. Always getting what she wants. If not, she'd manipulate and whine until her desire became reality. But today, all of that changed. The room was dimly lite, by a single swinging light above her. The walls were stained with a browish red hue. The smell of rotting meat, urin, sweat, and excrement all about her. The screams of past patrons echoed in her head, making her question her sanity profusely. She struggled constantly, only wanting to break free, and return to her shallow existance. But the thick leather straps about her wrists and ankles, prevented her salvation. This large wooden chair was her home now.

Tears rolled down her cheeks like a waterfall, her cries and pleas went unheard. Her struggles were in vain. Her life flashed before her eyes, she saw every sin, every ounce of pain she caused, and every selfish act she committed. Too many to count. The room was perfectly square, with no windows or clocks. She didn't know how long she had been out for. It could have been years, and she would never know. The only things she could see, was the rusty door in front of her, a small wooden table beside her, and the large bloodstained grate on the floor at her feet. Her weeps, were partially out of fear, and also out of regret. If she had been more kind, more compassionate, and less selfish. Maybe... Just maybe, things would have turned out better for her.

All she wanted was to return to her home in England. Just seeing the beautiful lake and countryside, would make her feel sheltered and safe once again. She promised herself, she would change. But it was too late. Her redemption was at hand.

The haggard door creaked open, and loud footsteps were heard over the concrete tile. The tall, lanky figure walked in slowly. His soulless gaze leering over the beautiful woman, whome he saw as a wretch. His carried a steel brief case in his left hand. He wore a grey 5.11 shirt, and grey cargo pants. His hikers echoed upon the floor with each terrifying step closer. The woman could not make out his features, for his face was masked in shadow. He stopped directly in front of her, and stared her over for a long moment. He looked up and his face was fully illuminated. His eyes were empty, and showed no signs of pity or remorse. His blonde hair, pulled back tightly into a pony tail. His facial structure was extremely handsome, with high cheek bones, a strong jawline, full lips, and proportioned nose and ears.

The girl broke into more tears, remembering exactly who this man was. She went to school with him a few years ago. Her and the other popular girls always teased him, and led him on. Because he used to be quiet and over weight. Back then he had no social skills. He never spoke because, his mind would work faster than his tongue, allowing comments that seemed immature and inappropriate for the situation. But the pain always laid dorment in his heart. While the rest of his unit partied, he used his free time to ruin those who hurt him. He abducted these girls, and repayed them for their selfishness. His heart was once pure and innocent. But cruel girls have corrupted him, and made him hate.

"Your tears mean nothing to me now. You remember everything you and your circle of whores did to me. I will Purify you Jessica. I will not kill you, for you do not deserve the comfort and closure of death." Stated the man sadisticly, with a demented smile upon his face. "Please Conner... It was only a few jokes, we didn't know it hurt you that much. Please I'm sorry... Just let me go home. I promise I will make it all up to you. Anything you want, money, drugs... Even me." Replyed Jessica, with tears running down her face, and fear in her voice. "Do you actually think that I want to pollute myself with filth like yourself?" Retorted Conner. "Please! I'm sorry.. I'm so very sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you, the other girls put me up to it! You have to believe me!" She begged as she looked down and continued to sob. "This is your fault for selling yourself so cheaply. But don't worry. I will help you." He finished with a sympathetic tone. "Really?" Her eyes lit up and a beautiful smile spread across her face.

Conner dropped the case on the small wooden table beside the girl freely. He ran his soft fingers over the dials, clicking all of the correct numbers into place before it opened. The steel cover lifted up, and a small light was flipped on inside the case. His instruments were displayed proudly. A scalpal, bonsaws, syringes, containers filled with various fluids of different colours and textures, and many other horrifying instruments. "Yes... I will help you. I will change your heart, by cutting you in many ways. I will change you from the terrible creature you are, into something beautiful. No longer will you be shallow and selfish. But you will see the beauty in disfiguration. And know what a sympathetic heart feels like. I will remove your nose and lips, and I will cut way your hands. However... I will leave your eyes and ears, so that you can see and hear the responses, of shallow people like yourself."

Jessica screamed and begged, as he reached for his tools. She wriggled and shook the chair, trying desperately to break free. Shouting apologies, and obscenities. Proclaiming hatred and ironicly love for him. Anything she could think of to try and get out of her situation. And without another word, Conner went to work.

12:10 A.M. Genoa, Italy. The drive has been long and tedious, almost 9 hours worth. Barry grabbed his side, and rubbed the tender muscles gently. He was going to be sore for awhile. However after the brawl, he did get a good cut of the money, and a few connections to the black market that resided in northern Italy. He released the blue smoke from his nostrils, and found it difficult to pay attention to what was in front of him. He had been taking the back roads most of the way to avoid any heat.

The roads were deserted for the most part, and it's been at least an hour since he saw another vehicle. He contacted Chris just after his fiasco earlier that afternoon, and was pleased to hear his voice again for the first time in several months. Chris had been residing in France for the last month or so. He didn't plan on returning to America any time soon, since Leon Kennedy had told him about something that was going down. The Secret Service wasn't sure what, but they relocated Chris to France just in case he would become a target. Chris set a rondevouse point in the middle of the forest for 12:30 A.M. Chris also mentioned that he felt like he was being watched, however he simply chalked it up to paranoia.

Barry rolled down his window and tossed the smoking filter outside. He glanced at the clock, it was now 12:22 A.M. He pulled up the PDA within the Hummer's computer. According to the coordinates that Chris sent him, he was about another 5 minute drive ahead. He reached down to the passanger side, and grabbed the SMG. Pressing his thumb over the small button at the top of the grip, the clip slid gracefully out of the breach, and on to the soft leather upholstery. He turned the magazine around, and examined the thin slit that ran down the back of the metallic piece from top to bottum. He counted the 7.65 millimeter rounds inside. Since his brief firefight that morning, he had only about 5 rounds left in that clip.

The road was fairly straight, so he took the wheel with his knees as he reached for some electrical tape he found in the back earlier. He grabbed the 2 fresh mags, and the nearly spent one. Holding the spent one in the center, he flipped a fresh one upside down, and pressed it beside the dry one. Barry then proceeded to wrap the sticky tape around the two clipsholding them together. He then flipped the other upside down as well and pressed it against the other side of the near empty one, repeating the process. When he was finished he had a make shift 3 in 1 loading system. It was a guerilla tactic used in Vietnam to speed reload your fire arms, without having to search your belt or fumble around for an extra mag when you were in a tight spot. When one clip is spent, you simply eject the magazine into your free hand.Turn it over, and slide the adjacent one home.

He slide the center nearly empty clip into the breach, and pulled back the bolt to chamber the next round. He pulled over to the side of the road, according to the PDA, it was the precise location. He turned off the ignition, and scanned the area from behind the wheel for Chris. But there was no one in sight. He looked back at the clock, it was 12:29 A.M. "Bah, that kid is never on time. I'd be foolish to expect otherwise." Barry stuffed a smoke into his mouth, and looked back up. Before even reaching for the lighter, his jaw dropped. Allowing the tobacco and paper mold to fall to the floor below. Only to be staring down the barrel of an M249 machine gun, manned by a large Latino man. Before the gun unleashed it's fury.


End file.
